Alsarra and many other maids and guardians and courtiers had instructed her to say-and do-as much, from before she could walk.
“Ooooh,” said someone at a table nearby, in mocking mimicry of a haughty, oh-so-pompous noble-the very sort of parody Alusair loved to indulge in herself. She cast a glance around, and saw astonishment on many hard- bitten faces.
“Lass,” a fat man asked, from a table not far off, “who are you?”
Alusair stood up slowly, planted her fingertips on the tabletop, stared at the serving maid, then slowly turned her head to survey everyone around her, as far to the left and right as her stance permitted.
“Folk of Cormyr,” she said proudly, “I am your princess. The Princess Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr, daughter of the Purple Dragon himself.”
Her last few words reminded her that in troubled Arabel, every last man of the local Watch was a Crown- sworn Purple Dragon, and as her eyes fell on Mhaulo and Darthil, gaping at her in staring astonishment, she added sternly, “It is my royal command that none of you, here or after departing this place, tell any man of the Watch or war wizard of my presence.”
In the awed silence that followed, she held out the ring again to the serving maid, who shrank back from it as if it were red-hot and flaming from a forge.
“By all the Watching Gods, are we to believe this wild-tongue work?” a tall merchant scoffed, from far across the taproom. “If this drab is Princess Alusair, I suppose then I’m Vangerdahast, wearing the crowns of all the dead kings of Cormyr as I play my grand games, lifting up the king and queen and setting them as his unwitting playing- pieces, and-”
“ Be still! ” Another man was on his feet, a gray-haired trader in once-fine robes, his voice shaking with anger. “You dishonor us all, man! I have been to Suzail, and been slipped into a grand revel to watch from a balcony as the royal family swept in-and this is the princess.”
And in the sudden, utter silence, he went down on his knees to Alusair.
In the warehouse next door, men growled instructions, grunted with effort, and hastened to and fro as new stacks of crates and coffers were shifted by lanternlight. The stable, however, was dark and silent except for the sounds of horses tossing their heads and pawing at the straw.
The most restive horses seemed to be the ones made ready for the Knights, their reins tied to pillars. Things did not improve as the Knights mounted up.
“Fare you well, Knights of Myth Drannor,” Melandar said, walking along the row of horses with a hand that glowed faintly. He calmed each horse at a touch. “Your horses now all know the way to the Eastgate, and will desire to go only there. The gate will open at your approach. Know that the good wishes of Cormyr go with you, and that agents of the Crown will bring word when you are welcome back.”
“Thank you,” Semoor murmured. “Is that word expected in our lifetimes?”
The war wizard gave him a wry smile, said gently, “Of course it is, Sir Priest. This is no exile nor punishment. Consider it a personal service to the queen. I will not be surprised to see all of you back at Court far sooner than you expect to be there. Yet now I must leave you to attend to my next task.”
His wave was the last of him that the Knights saw. His body vanished, swallowed by some silent magic or other, his moving hand winking out last.
Florin sighed, shook himself as if coming out of a deep slumber, and said, “Well, we’d best get out of Arabel without delay, as such is obviously expected of us, and-”
Something moved in the darkness, swift and near. Islif ducked to let a knife flash past, then lifted an arm to strike aside a dagger whirling at her. Jhessail’s horse reared and screamed. Pennae launched herself from her saddle at a man who dodged out from behind a pillar and a heap of hay, running at them with a drawn sword and dagger in his hands.
Another man sprang up beside Florin’s horse, knife flashing. The ranger kicked out as hard as he could, taking the man under the chin.
Florin could feel the man’s neck and jaw shatter as his boot heaved the writhing, spasming man up into the air. A few teeth flashed back lanternlight momentarily as their owner spun away. Florin’s mount bucked and screamed in fear, and he wrestled with the reins to stay in the saddle.
Doust cried, “Tymora be with us!”
At the same time Semoor chanted, “Lathander’s light sunder this night!” and light flared in the air around them-only to be extinguished an instant later, by a spell that made the air all around the Knights crackle and crawl.
The horses screamed in terrified unison, a horrible sound that was cut off as abruptly as if by a slicing knife, leaving only silence. A silence that swallowed everything except a man’s cold, cruel laughter.
“Die, Knights of Myth Drannor,” the unseen man said, “at the hands of the Zhentarim. Faerun will be much improved by the removal of a queen’s toys before they have any chance to become annoying. You are as nothing-so be nothing!”
“There are six Knights of Myth Drannor now. Behold, and mark them well. All but one from the flourishing, upcountry spired-city of Espar.”
The guards chuckled, but went on peering at the glowing spell images. Even the house wizards of minor nobles were apt to be testy with underlings who treated their orders with anything less than eager attention.
“This tall, handsome ladies-swoon hero is Florin Falconhand. Honest, true, swift with a sword, and a lot more naive than his manner will make you think-or than he thinks he is. This ruddy-faced farm lass who looks capable of wrestling him to the ground is Islif Lurelake. Strong, doesn’t say much; you know the sort. The dainty little thing with the big elflike eyes is Jhessail Silvertree, who knows a spell or two. Looks like a little girl just ready to flirt, eh? Beware her-aside from this one, skulking here at the end, she’s the most dangerous if the Knights ever step over our threshold.”
“And will they?”
The house wizard shrugged. “Who knows? They’re saying these Knights now serve the queen-and you know what that means.”
“I know what it usually means, but notorious adventurers with blades hanging off them are hardly effective spies.”
“Aye, but they can be effective distractions. And threats too.” The wizard’s voice sharpened. “Which we can speak of later. For now, learn these last three. The dangerous one is the outlander: Pennae, she calls herself, though she’s used a score of other names across Sembia in the last ten winters. A sneak-thief, and a good one. Learn her face if you remember none of the others.”
“And the holy men? Aren’t they mere novices?”
“They are. This handsome one is Doust Sulwood, dedicated to Tymora. Shy, unassuming, but misses little. The other’s Semoor Wolftooth, of Lathander. He’s ruled by his smart tongue and inability not to use it all the time. What comes out of his mouth will give us all the excuses we need to attack, imprison, or run off these Knights, if they show up here. Any questions?”
“Have they any weaknesses?”
The house wizard sighed. “They’re adventurers, Dlarvan. Therefore they’re reckless fools, by definition. Inexperienced reckless fools. Surely you can deal with a handful of such dolts?”
“I’m sure we can,” Dlarvan said-at the same time as a guard somewhere in the shadows well behind him muttered, “Well, we deal with a wizard every day.”
The look the house wizard gave them all then was his best withering glare, but they looked back at him with identical expressions of moon-faced innocence. Motherless bastards.
Black-clad men were everywhere in the darkness, swords flashing in the gloom of the stables. Pennae threw a dagger into one man’s face, then leaped in another direction to stab a half-seen warrior.
Doust threw himself awkwardly out of his saddle, bare moments before a sword stabbed at where he’d been. Its wielder ducked around the hind end of Doust’s horse-and was flung hard against a pillar as the horse kicked angrily.
Jhessail reached out for a rafter, to try to haul herself off her bucking, kicking horse, but arched back and away with a little shriek as a man swung down out of the loft to thrust a sword along the beam she’d been reaching for.
In the eerie spell-silence, with her fellow Knights fighting for their lives all around her, Islif spat out an oath
